Accidental
by TheMightyKoosh
Summary: For Healer Pomfrey's Autumn challenge: Harry falls sick but, due to what he learnt at the Dursleys', tries to hide it from everyone. However, one person, either a teacher or a student, notices and helps him get better.


Heya! This was written for Healer Pomfrey's Autumn challenge: Harry falls sick but, due to what he learnt at the Dursleys', tries to hide it from everyone. However, one person, either a teacher or a student, notices and helps him get better. **  
Conditions:** The person must NOT be Snape! The following words MUST be used: cupboard, conjure, pink, house-elf, snow.

It started as that and ended..well...you'll see.

Enjoy!

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**Accidental**

Harry Potter was sat in the Great Hall watching as the new first years, fresh faced and nervous, were being led in by the stern Professor McGonagall to stand in a line to be sorted into the houses that would be their families for the next seven years.

Harry felt terrible. His head was pounding, he was simultaneously hot and cold, his palms were sweaty and his vision was fuzzy even with his glasses on. Just the thought of food made him feel queasy. Every bone in his body ached. His normally pale skin was an unhealthy pallid, his high cheek bones pink from the fever he felt attacking his body.

"Are you okay, Harry?" Hermione asked, leaning over the table to grasp his hand.

"Yeah, I'm fine." His voice was scratchy, he sounded awful. "Jus' tired." He mumbled.

She eyed him suspiciously before turning back to the head table where Dumbledore had begun to speak, his powerful voice projected across the hall.

Harry's ears felt like they were full of cotton wool, a strange whooshing sound like the wind and the sea filling them. Harry had heard the same speech every year since he was eleven and so didn't think that he really needed to listen.

He jumped back, surprised, when he headmaster waved his wand and plate loads of food appeared on the table, unaware that the man had even been speaking.

Hermione was still watching him intently, concerned. "You looked like you were somewhere else entirely then." She commented, her clever brain not missing anything; his skin looked pallid and coated in sheen of sweat.

"Sirius?" she asked, although I seemed that she already knew, or thought she knew, the answer.

The death of his Godfather had hi him hard, and at the mention of his name Harry still felt a great rending pain splitting his chest in two. He knew he hadn't dealt with it over the summer, but the Dursley's hadn't really given him a chance to mourn.

His breath caught in his throat as he tried to hold in a sob, tears threatening o fall unbidden.

"Oh, I'm sorry Harry, I shouldn't have said anything." She cried guiltily.

"It's okay." He muttered, "I'm going to bed."

With that he stood up and heard her say "Harry, you look as if a heard of _hippogriffs _couldn't wake you." But he just shook his head and stumbled from the hall.

He limped up the stairs, his right leg paining him, and slowly began to make his way up them. By the time he had reached the top of the first set he was out of breath. He cooped down and lowered his head between his knees in a vein attempt to stop the roiling of his stomach. He gulped up entire lungfuls of air and for just a moment his head stopped pounding. Using one hand to brace himself against the wall, he stood up. He had to close his eyes again though as the ground started moving. Taking a deep breath, he began up the next challenging staircase.

It was with great relief that he finally stood outside the Gryffindor common room, only to remember that he didn't know the password! For ten minutes he stared dejectedly at The Fat Lady, who refused to give him entrance without a password. Eventually, once his sluggish mind had begun to wander, he recalled Hermione's final words to him. 'You look as if a heard of _hippogriffs _couldn't wake you!' "Hippogriff", that was the password.

He shouted it exultantly at The Fat Lady, although it came out as more of a croak, and she swung forward with a murmured 'finally'. It seemed that in his befuddled mind Harry had not registered Hermione's words, or, more importantly, their meaning.

Once inside the common room, he collapsed heavily into an armchair, before falling into a deep, much need, sleep.

"'Ry. Harry." He heard his name being called quietly as his shoulder was gently shaken.

He cracked his eyes open to find his two best friends peering worriedly into his face. Sluggishly, Harry blinked a few times, before under his glasses to rub at his eyes.

Upon seeing him glance around, Ron explained that they had just come up, along with the rest of the house, from the Welcoming Feast, to find Harry fast asleep in an armchair in the common room.

"You look a wreck, Harry." Ron said, blunt as always.

"Thanks." Was the dry reply.

"What Ron means," Hermione said, slapping the red head around the back of the head, "Is that maybe you should go up to the dormitory and get some sleep; that chair can't be very comfy."

"Yeah, I think I'll do just that." He croaked, before standing up and limping to the staircase.

"Harry?" Hermione called "Is your leg okay, your limping?"

He nodded, supplying her with a "Slept on it wrong, 's gone dead."

She watched him sceptically as he walked away.

Sat on the edge of his bed, Harry rolled his trouser leg up as far as it could go. About half way up his thigh was a gash about the size of his hand. It was open and weeping, a horrible yellow-grey puss mixing with the blood that was also oozing from it, congealing slightly around the edges. The skin around it was and angry red and puffy; when Harry placed his hand hovering over it, it radiated a heat that could not have been healthy.

Gently prodding at the puffy area, Harry winced at the pain that I triggered.

It was this injury that was making Harry feel so ill. The Dursley's had been as unsympathetic as was to be expected over the death of Sirius. Harry's despondency had only angered them, and he had been hit by a constant barrage of insults, on top of his list of daily chores.

One day, about two days before the end of the summer, Dudley had been telling Harry how nobody could possibly want him, that his parents had never wanted him, closely followed by the fact that Sirius had been a scumbag, and Harry, still feeling raw after dreaming of Sirius falling through the veil, had retaliated, possibly for the first time ever.

Harry had shouted at the top of his lungs, that it was Dudley and _his_ family that were the scumbags before aiming a punch at his cousins face. Feeling blood drip from his knuckles, Harry had realised that he would be in deep shit. So he had ran to the kitchen in order to flee through the back door.

Only to find that Aunt Petunia had heard their raised voices, and Dudley's cry, and turned from cutting a chicken to see what the commotion was about, the carving knife held low, but firmly, in her hand.

Since he was looking the over his shoulder for Uncle Vernon, Harry didn't see the danger, the sharp knife piercing through denim and skin and deep into his leg.

He cried out at the pain, both hands flying to grab at the wound, unaware that he was collapsing to the cold, hard kitchen floor. The crimson of his blood was spreading across the pristine white tiles. His vision was narrowing and blurring and he felt detached, like a spectator not a participant, as his Uncle grabbed him by the collar of his too big, hand-me-down tee-shirt.

"Serves you right, ungrateful brat, for that slight against my family!"

In his fogged mind Harry could make out that his Uncle was very angry. Vernon began to pull him up the stairs, but he was finding it hard o co-ordinate his feet, so he ended up being dragged.

Once thrown into Dudley's second bedroom, he passed out and was left there 'till the end of the summer without any food and water.

Cringing, Harry pulled his trouser leg back down, before lying down and proceeded to fall into a feverish sleep.

Hours later, in the dead of night, Harry awoke with a gasp, the image of Sirius falling through the veil replaying behind his eyes, just as he had relived the moment in his dreams. He sat up and looked around the room; all the other sixth years were, thankfully, asleep.

Quietly, so as not to disturb anyone, he limped over to the door, which he gently closed behind him. His leg nearly gave out, causing him to fall down the stairs, but he grabbed the banister just in time.

In the common room he sort out one of the armchairs in front of the large fire where he'd fire chatted with Sirius. He curled his legs up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them and gazed sadly and longingly into the flickering flames, wishing with all his heart that he had a time turner.

Even though he was sat close to a blazing fire, he felt freezing cold, as if he had spent and entire day in the snow that was a constant around Hogwarts during the winter months.

A head appeared in the flames; long, black hair and tired, loving eyes, wrinkled by time a experience. Sirius! His mouth was moving, but the only sound was the crackling of the fire. He knew that his wasn't real, just an apparition conjured from his feverish mind, but even though, deep down inside, he knew this, he still cried out, diving onto the floor in front of the fire, trying to get closer to his Godfather, the flames warming his already hot skin.

He reached out one hand to touch the spectral head, but the fire burnt his skin and he jerked back, the image dispelled 'till there was once again nothing but fire left.

Without him even noticing, Harry had tears streaming down his face, leaving salty tracks. Sirius was dead, gone, couldn't Harry ever get a break.

The common felt incredibly stuffy and Harry needed to get out of there. Get some air. Get away.

By now his entire leg felt like it was on fire, but he didn't let that stop him as he made his way from the common room. He didn't know where he was going; he just went where ever his feet took him. By the time he'd reached the end of the corridor, he was already out of breath, sweat dripping off his forehead and into his eyes.

He walked down a flight of stairs, thinking that to be easier than up, at half the speed he would usually take. At the bottom he had to stop to sit, his limbs shaking badly.

A black figure appeared, billowing cloak and greasy hair: Snape! Harry froze like a rabbit in the headlights, only for the man to walk through a definitely solid wall. He knew that he should be concerned that he was hallucinating, but again Harry felt strangely detached.

He stood up to continue his night time stroll but had only gone two steps when he had to lean against the wall, the floor was spinning and he felt as if he was about to be sick, he could feel it rising in his throat.

Something compelled him to continue walking, he thought perhaps that he should go to the hospital wing, he was certainly ill enough, but he just couldn't bring himself to go of his own volition, maybe he would if his health declined anymore, although he knew it was worsening at an alarmingly rapid pace.

He pushed off from the wall and the world span sickeningly. He stumbled to one side and would have fallen had strong arms not caught him. Funny, Harry hadn't heard anybody approaching; then again, he couldn't hear much of anything.

Sluggishly, his meagre reserves of energy quickly waning, he looked up into concerned blue eyes. For all their disagreements last year, Harry was incredible glad to see Albus Dumbledore.

"Harry my boy?" Dumbledore asked, concerned. It seemed that he didn't hear, so he walked closer to find out what he was doing out and about after hours.

As he was about to place one hand on his shoulder to bring him out of whatever place he retreated to, Harry turned, only to fall towards the floor. His arms shot out to catch him. Albus was concerned; he was too small for his age and burning up. Startling green eyes, so like his mothers, looked up at him and Dumbledore was sure that he caught a flash of relief there and it wasn't just his hopeful wishing, before they dropped closed and Harry hung limp in his arms.

With a strength belying his age, Dumbledore swung Harry up into his arms. Hastily, he turned with a sweep of his midnight blue robes to the direction of his office.

The office door opened immediately and he gently, tenderly, placed the shivering form on he sofa that was occupying one section of the wall. He took of Harry's glasses, placing them on his desk; when he turned back Harry was, surprisingly, waking up.

Albus darted over and crouched down beside him, ignoring the creaking in his knees, and brushed sticky hair out of his eyes.

There was a groan before his eyes clenched and slowly opened. Albus noticed straight away that they were hazy and feverish.

"Harry?" he asked, the lad was in bad shape, "Harry, can you tell me how you feel please?"

It took a while for Harry to register where he was and that somebody was talking to him and his forehead furrowed. Harry felt the truth that he spent all day hiding, tumbling from his mouth.

"Every bone in my body aches." He began with and opened his mouth to say more when he doubled over, vomiting all over the floor. Except, over the past three days he had eaten nothing but a few bites of pumpkin pie, so it consisted of nothing but a few mushy chunks and stomach acid before he began dry heaving painfully.

Dumbledore rubbed circles into his back with one hand, disturbed to find that Harry's bony spine was sticking out, all the while whispering soothingly, while with the other he waved away the smelly mess on the floor, before waving his wand to conjure a jug of water and glass.

When Harry heaved a sigh, his body shaking, Albus passed him a glass of water to drink, remembering that aching bones was a sign of dehydration.

"When was the last time you had a drink, Harry?" he asked gently, almost as if he were speaking to a young child.

Harry held up three fingers.

"Three hours." He asked, hoping it was. To his horror Harry shook his head. "Three days!" he exclaimed, to which Harry nodded. "Well do you feel better now?"

"Not really."

Dumbledore frowned, he could tell Harry had a high fever and was seriously unwell but unless the introvert let him in, which he didn't think he would after the way they left things last year, he wouldn't be able to see to it.

Harry looked like he was thinking hard in something, as he chewed his bottom lip. He reached down and pulled up his right trouser leg. The Headmaster gasped; there was a large weeping wound, that looked a few days old and as if it hadn't received any medical treatment.

He took this as the boy's permission to treat it.

Albus moved closer to get a better look; the area around the injury was red and puffy, radiating heat and screamed of infection, which would explain Harry's obvious fever. His usually bright green eyes were dull and hazy from the fever, his skin an unhealthy yellow tinge. He was sweating but shivering at the same time, and he looked exhausted, huge black rings around his eyes. He'd also just thrown up all over the thick carpet.

With a wave of his wand Dumbledore summoned several potions vials, among which was a fever reducer, blood replenisher and an assortment of others.

"Drink this." He urged, and Harry complied without question, for which Albus was glad, for it meant there was still hope for them yet.

The potion didn't have instantaneous effects, it was magic not a miracle, but the boys eyes did focus a bit more. After a brief moment Harry's face crumpled, it seemed that with the fog of fever befuddling his mind gone, he could the pain in his leg more intensely. He began to lose his stiffly held posture and slouch to one side, but Dumbledore caught him and gently lowered him onto his back like before, resting him against plump cushions.

"I'm just going to see this leg, okay?" the question was rhetorical.

He opened a jar of thick green salve and slathered it across the entire infected area of the thigh, before wrapping it in a linen bandage.

When the Headmaster looked up from his work, Harry had fallen asleep, so he conjured a thick, fleecy blanket and draped it over the thin, shivering form, tucking it in at the sides, in a way he had the feeling had never been done before.

Three hours later, in the early hours of the morning, Harry began to stir. Dumbledore, who was sat pensively at his desk, watching him sleep, leapt up to crouch back besides the sofa.

Harry groaned, before his eyes blinked open and he stared up at Dumbledore blearily. Glasses were gently placed on his face before a glass of water was handed to him.

"Oh Harry." Dumbledore sounded infinitely sad, but the boy made no reply.

"How'd you get so poorly, Harry?" Albus asked.

"Accident. The Dursley's." He said reluctantly before elaborating, his voice quiet in his subdued and weakened state. "Dudley was slagging off about my parents and Si-Sirius." He explained, voice cracking, "I punched him."

"Then what?" Although The Headmasters voice was soft and cajoling, Harry was uncertain what to tell the man that he knew would manipulate him to no end. "Did your Uncle do this Harry?"

Harry looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?" his words were harsh and brittle, intended to cut.

"Oh Harry-"

"But that's right, you knew, you knew what the Dursley's were like, but you still sent me back there, year after year, to a house where I was nothing but a freak!" he spat out angrily.

"Oh Harry, Harry my boy-" Dumbledore's voice was so sad and guilty that Harry felt bad for a moment. "I did what I felt I must; to protect you, the world, from what seemed an even greater evil. But I see now that the end does not justify the means."

Harry didn't want to look at the ageless blue eyes, so wracked with guilt, so instead he gazed distractedly about the room, returned to its usual orderly fashion, but it only served to remind him of all the anger and pain he had felt the last time he was here. A sob escaped him, and he felt tears prickling at his eyes.

"Oh Harry, tell what's wrong." He crouched before him.

"He's gone. He's gone and he's not coming back and it's not fair." He cried, wrapping his arms about his torso, "And it was all my fault, just like everything else is."

"No Harry, never." He placed a gnarled hand on his bony knew. "Sometimes awful things happen to people, but it's never your fault, not ever, you understand me!" he was speaking as one would to a child.

He drew in a shaky breath "But I _told _Cedric to take the cup with me." Dumbledore shook his wise head sadly, he tenderly squeezed his knee.

Reluctantly Harry said "If anything ever went wrong at…The Dursley's…" unwilling to call it 'home' "I was always blamed."

"I'm sorry I sent you there."

"But you knew." He sniffed "You knew and you sent me back there year after year. Even when I asked you not to." Harry felt his temper rising, worse even then he'd felt in the summer. "You knew that they treated me worse than a house elf; that I was shunned and hidden away, locked in a cupboard. What kind of family _does_ that?" he spat out, fists clenched.

"One day you'll understand better."

"Oh, that's right, Voldemort." Harry's voice was hard and bitter "Maybe I'll just move to Magaluf."

The Headmaster looked infinitely sad. "But you wont, will you, 'cause you couldn't leave everyone else to his mercy."

Harry snorted, knowing that Dumbledore was right, and knowing that he knew it.

"But I don't want to be The Chosen One anymore. Haven't I already done enough; haven't I already _lost_ enough?" He cried, all the pain that he felt leaking into his voice.

Looking at Harry, Dumbledore saw not the saviour of the wizarding world, but a scared and broken boy who had already lost too much to The Cause, not just a family and a second chance, but a real childhood of love and laughter. On fifteen birthdays and Christmases. On all those things that _everybody _should be entitled to.

A boy that just wanted to be what he never had been: normal.

"You wont go back there Harry, there'll be somewhere else you can go. Grimwauld Place is always an option."

Harry shook his head vehemently. "The only person that really wanted _me_ was Sirius; and he's dead. Got that D-E-A-D dead!" his voice had risen 'till he was shouting, before dropping suddenly to a whisper. "He was the _only _one."

"You inherited all of his possessions and vault." Dumbledore said, hoping that would make him feel better, that he at least had a home, that Sirius had thought of him and that a part of his Godfather would always be with him.

"You think I want money?" Harry asked rhetorically, his anger turning to incredulity.

"No, I don't suppose you do. I'm sorry that I suggested it." Harry looked at him in surprise.

"You know, Sirius was very proud of you, as your parents no doubt are."

At the soft words, Harry began to cry. It started as just a few tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes, before his shoulders began to quiver and shake s his body was wracked with sobs, the tears flowing thick and fast.

Dumbledore shifted onto the sofa and gently gathered Harry into his arms, pulling him into his lap; Albus knew that Harry was not only mourning over the death of Sirius but for his parents too, and that this was the grief he had felt as a child, growing up locked away in the dark, in more ways than one.

The Headmaster murmured soothing words. "Let it out, boy, let it out."

He was mumbling incoherently into his shoulder. "Why wont anybody love me?" he managed to make out as the crying subsided.

"I do, Harry. I do son." He whispered. Strong fingers stroked Harry's brow, making him feel safe and sleepy.

Harry's body began to relax in his arms at the words he'd waited his whole life to hear, his breathing evening out. "Thanks Dad." He whispered, before falling asleep in the comfort and safety of Albus' arms.

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OMG! The longest thing I've ever written, 3,860 words. *explodes*

Thanks for reading, review?


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